In the Shadow of the Giant
by Brocktree
Summary: Set during the primeval days of Cyrodiil when slavery was very much alive, a single free Argonian advocates the unthinkable: Escape from the Imperial City. So now, it's up to a cast of characters to attempt the seemingly impossible task.
1. Serin the Dark Eyed

_I wrote this introduction a while back, but I've decided to go through and complete the whole thing._

The Argonian thrust his sword forward, fighting with an imaginary foe. The iteration ducked and parried as he continued brandishing his sword. He continued to fight until his arms began to feel heavy and when at last he had enough, he called off the iteration and sat down, exhausted, on the cold stone floor.

He laid his short sword, Deathweaver, on the floor and began to get mentally prepared for his match. It began in less than an hour. Soon he'd hear the heavy footsteps of the people of Cyrodiil as they buffeted the steps above his cell. The dust would fall from the stone ceiling as it had always done when the arena filled, and that would be the cue to get his battle raiment on.

He walked over to the only window in his cell, a crude rectangular hole, that gave the room it's little light, save a few candles that flicked dancing lights on and between the rough stone bricks. The rest of the room felt very dark and bleak, but the Argonian had learned to call it home. It didn't feel as comfortable as the Black Marsh in any respect though.

Suddenly the wooden door of his cell flew open, banging against the wall. Two imperials dressed in magnificent golden trimmed armor walked in, followed by a High Elf. The Elf was at least a head and a half taller than the two imperials, and was garbed in extravagant gold robes with various black and crimson streaks that allotted insignias only understood by those who fluent were with the Altmer language and it's customs.

The two imperials unsheathed their swords and held them in a cross, separating the Argonian and the Elf. The Elf put on a smirk, his proud and perfect face devoid of any wrinkles.

"Well then," the elf began. "How's my favorite fighter today?"

The Argonian didn't answer.

The elf cupped his hands together and nodded slowly. "Don't worry, I understand. Even though I'd normally whip a slave of mine who didn't respond to me. You on the other hand, are precious cargo. How does that make you feel?"

The Argonian kept his silence, staring into the Elf's eyes with his masked pair. The elf stopped talking for a moment and stared right back at the Argonians, but after a few seconds they wondered off and he cleared his throat promptly. "Your opponent today is an Orc," he began. "And the damn biggest one I've ever seen. He's around my height, if not taller. He wields a battleaxe called Frostbite. You, on the other hand, are much shorter, have much less muscle, and wield no magical axe." The elf laughed . "You should have no problem taking him out. Go for the legs. I'm sure they are about as tall as you are anyway. I'll be watching you from the stands."

The elf turned to leave, his robes following in full flow. Just as he was leaving the room, he turned back and said, "Oh yes, remember, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. I know you've heard it before, but it is true you know."

The elf cleared the room, and when it was obvious he had left the building, one of the guards nodded at the Argonian and in a deep voice, addressed him. "After you get your raiment on, meet me outside the cell. I'll be waiting to escort you to the Arena,"

By now the dust had begun falling, and the Argonian slipped his green raiment on. He took hold of his sword, and clutched it tightly in his scaly green hands. He stepped outside the cell and the guard noticed him instantly.

"Oh, you dress faster than the rest. Usually we have to force the raiment on you know. You don't look nervous either. Aren't you nervous?"

The Argonian gave the guard a contemptuous dark glare, and the guard stepped back. "Okay, okay, no need to get upset. Follow me."

The hallway outside the cell was long, dark and it's bricked ceiling, arched. Tightly knit doors plastered the walls that led into cells that were darker than the hall. In few cells did beams of yellow light omit through the door's cell bars, though that, along with few randomly spread torches did little justice to the ominous shadows that lingered on the floor and in the crevices of the bricks. The end of hall led to spiraling stone stairs that glowed dim and soft from the light of the arena above.

As the Argonian and the guard passed the cells, their occupants handed out words of luck and encouragement. As they neared the steps, an occupant of the last cell in the hall stuck a scaly hand through three small rusty bars and patted the Argonian's shoulder. Then a raspy and weary voice sounded from behind the door. "Luck to you, Serin."

The guard grumbled under his breath and turned to direct his voice to the cell's occupant. "Oh, still alive I see? Well you should do yourself a favor and drop dead. And if you don't get that grimy hand off of him, I'll chop it off - quick and clean." The guard stressed the end of the sentence.

The prisoner withdrew his hand and the guard signaled to Serin. "Pay no heed to him. He's just another witherer down here. He's pretty much washed up, can't fight anymore. Hasn't been able to for years. I don't know why they still feed him."

Sarin's countenance remained blank, and the guard grumbled and muttered a curse under his breath, as many guards do when they fail to intimidate.

They started up the steps, and the roar of the crowd was beginning to echo softly through the spiraling stairs and the light began to become more vibrant, when at last, Serin was forced to squint as he hadn't seen the sun for nearly a week. The warm light seemed to reflect off his scales, instilling some new energy. He made his way up the steps slowly now, gaining silent confidence with every step.

When he finally hit the top, the roar of the crowd was definite, and the guard stood out of his way. "Proceed."

Before him lie a similar hall in shape as the one below, as it was arched. Though this time, instead of stairs at its end, a collection of adjacent steel poles jutted from the ground vertically at it's end, acting as a gate. The light from the arena blinded the Serin for a moment, and all he could make out at first were the outlines of the poles, though it didn't take long for his dark eyes to adjust to his surroundings. Now he made his way down this final hall, going steadily uphill. The reason for the slight incline was drainage for the blood from the arena, which seeped slowly downhill from the Arena and dripped into the sewage below.

When the Serin at last reached the end of the hall, he had adjusted to the light totally. He looked up into the stands and saw many citizens huddled together in the dome-shaped architecture of the Arena. From his point of view they all looked like one giant tapestry, hung from the tops of the arena that depicted many faces from the different ethnicities of Tamriel, along with vibrant, randomized colors.

Two thick stone brick walls still were on both sides of Serin, obscuring his view of the stands on both sides of him. They were considerably cleaner and newer looking than the cellar's walls or even the hallway's walls behind him.

Serin looked up to a platform at the top of the arena, where the announcer usually started the match. Sure enough, he suddenly iterated, as from thin air, garbed in a simple blue robe, and with a tangly gray beard that hung down to his chest. In his hand he held a crude wooden staff that made a zig-zag at it's top. The announcer rose the staff slowly into the air, and he seemed to be chanting something, as he had closed his eyes and his mouth moved quickly. Suddenly, his movement ceased and he brought the staff down forcefully onto the platform. It made a loud thump which resonated throughout the whole arena, which quickly fell silent.

The announcer looked around the audience for a few moments before beginning. "Good people of the Imperial City, welcome to the arena. Deep, from within the Dragontail Mountains, comes our Champion's opponent today. Clad in the grandest armors, and equipped with a cold axe, he comes to challenge our best. Can Oru the Mighty from the Dragontail Mountains defeat Serin the dark-eyed? Let's find out- lower the gates!"

With that, the iron bars receded into small holes in the ground, and out of the shadows from the other gate appeared the biggest orc Serin had ever seen. The Altmer had spoken the truth. The orc was indeed twice as tall as him, and equipped with magnificent golden armor. The orc was brutish – his muscles looked like giant boulders trapped under his pale green skin; his battle axe was holstered on his back. The battle axe appeared very large, since it was nearly the size of the orc himself. It's handle ended at the top of the orc's head, and the double-bladed edge tip was lined perfectly with his knees.

The Orc's leather boots sunk diligently into the sand as he slowly made his was to the middle of the arena. A single yellow tusk protruded from the bottom lip of the orc's mouth, which was twisted into a smug smirk, as if Serin's size had already assured the orc's victory.

The two finally reached the middle of the arena, which was a large metal circle with one crevice that bordered it and made an intricate cross in it's middle; also useful for blood drainage. Serin looked up to his opponent, but the orc looked ahead, and a dark chuckle escaped from him before he looked down at his opponent.

He fell on his knees and sized Serin up a bit more. "I'll swat you like a fly with the flat of my axe. No one so tiny can defeat Oru-Burog."

Serin sized up his opponent, and looked at his various iterations of scars. All he had going was his size, which was sure to compensate for even the more tactful adversaries. Though, he probably had a weak spot somewhere, and he was in no way going to puncture his groin in order to win. To do such a thing would be dishonorable.

Oru-Burog gripped his axe tight with both hands, and pointed it at the Argonian. "You will die quickly, and I will be the winner."

Indeed, this orc was as stupid as the sand of the arena. He was like most of the Arena opponents Serin faced over the years, and relied on brute force to gain an upper hand. He probably just expected to swing once, and behead; was he in for a surprise. The faintest smile came over the Serin's face.

Suddenly without warning, Oru unsheathed his axe with incredible speed and side swung it as hard as he could at the Argonian with both hands, which threw him off balance. The Argonian quickly ducked and could feel the cut air ripple above him along with a feint wisp of wind that caressed his scales. Oru staggered a little at the force of the swing, and Serin took quick intuitive, rolling out of his ducked position toward Oru and stabbing his thigh with his sword as hard as he could, then stood up behind the Orc, bracing himself for another swing.

Oru turned around, an expression of complete belligerence showing on his face. Oru's wild eyes radiated blood. Snot and spit covered his lips and was dripping down to the sand. Quintessentially, a pissed off Orc.

Again he swung his axe, this time straight down. Serin dodged to the left just in time for the axe to come to a thudding halt in the sand. Oru pulled the axe out, but Serin was too quick. He jumped and swiftly jabbed his sword into his side. Crying out in pain, Oru knocked Serin aside with a quick flick of his bulky arm, who in turn skidded along the sand, head first, until he hit the metal platform in the middle of the arena. Oru ripped the sword from his frame and cast it aside.

Dazed, Serin stood up. His posture wobbled a bit, but he had regained his composure in no time. The armor he wore now sported a huge dent where Oru's elbow had made contact, but there were no obvious wounds or blood.

Oru charged at him, his axe flailing at his side. He swung rigorously at Serin, who dodged to the left. Oru lost his balance with the swing, and fell with a resolute thud on his side, facing away from Serin. Serin's eyes scanned the sand for his blade. When at last he saw it, he felt dismayed; it was all of the way on the other side of the arena lodged half-way into the sand. Serin dashed to the sword, and when he retrieved it,he turned to find that Oru was already up again and glaring right at him. Even from there he could see the eyes.

Oru began sprinting toward him, only slowed by the weight of his axe. Serin suddenly realized that he had become tired. The orc wasn't probably used to fighting for so long. He readied his sword as the orc approached. Oru lunged at him with his axe, and Serin flung the sword, tip first like a spear, then rolled away.

The cheering and hollering in the Arena ceased all of the sudden. Serin quietly got back on his feet and dusted the sand from his shorts. After he saw where the balde had hit, he smirked. The orc was dead, with the bloodied blade itself jutting out of the back of the skull.

A wood on wood snapping sound was heard, and the Announcer's voice reverberated throughout the arena just as it had done before. "And there you have it folks, the greatest Gladiator in all of Cyrodiil, Serin the Dark-eyed! Not one man or beast that has challenged him has been able to withstand his wrath.

Ear-splitting cheering met the Argonian's ears as he began his decent back to his cell, but then shifted to a low roar as he made his way back down the stairs, and then finally it ceased all together.

As the Argonian began to open his cell door, he was hailed.

"You've made me a millionaire!" It was the Elf. He was surrounded by four Imperial Guards laden in the golden armor as before.

Serin turned to meet his gaze and spoke for the first time, a hint impatience and disgust rattled along with his voice. "I've killed the orc. Do what you said you would do. I want to speak with him before he goes."

The Elf appeared lost for a moment, but then smiled a deceptive smile. "Oh yes, the old one." He snapped his fingers. "Bring Serin to see the old one, and after he is done, you are to release the elder outside. Serin is to return to his cell."

An adjacent guard instantly obeyed, running along the corridor and unlocked the final cell nearest the stairs. Serin paced to the door and walked in.

The old Argonian was huddled in the corner. Serin could hardly make out his silhouette. The elder looked up, his dark eyes reflecting the torch light from the hall way. He spoke, his voice hoarse and cracked. "You're alive?"

"Yes, I beat him. You are free," said Serin kindly. He walked over and helped the elder stand.

After he was on firm ground, the elder shook his head. "I might be physically free, but my thoughts will be here, trapped with you. So, I truly will not be free."

Serin walked him over to the door carefully, making sure to support him. "You understand my position. If I escape, I'll be hunted down like an animal just to be caged again. That's all I am to him: An animal. He'll do what he did last time and paralyze me. Damn that Elf."

"Animals roam free, son."

An imperial guard took came up from behind and supported the old man. He looked at Serin. "Go back to your cell prisoner. I'll help him from here."

Serin obeyed, and returned back to his cell. Back to his cage. And as the cell door was shut, locked, and bound, the light from the torch faded, along with the shimmer of hope left in the Argonian. He felt he was never going to be free.


	2. Drake and the Nord

Two people sat in the Green Grog, discussing Dark Eyes's recent win in the arena over two pints of Ale.

"'E's a god 'e is!" Stated the first, a rough, unrefined looking Nord with a pair of torn pants and long sleeve shirt; coupled with small holes. His stubby, unshaven chin helped to cast an irregular shadow on the bar in the low candle light.

The other was a more elegant looking fellow who sported a long blue robe which was trimmed lightly with green around the neck of his hood; which at that moment rested on his back. The hood usually obscured the upper half of his face, but since he had it down, both his black eyes and hair could be seen. He gazed at the other with half closed eyes, as if bored by the conversation."If he was a god, then he would have escaped by now, don't you think? Why wouldn't he want freedom?"

The Nord took a quick swig of his Ale, retorting, "'Cus, 'e's jus' wantin' a reason to fight 'e is!"

The other shook his head softly, his ale untouched. "That's a stupid assumption. Just like all assumptions you make when you're drunk."

The Nord laughed hysterically as he took a final drink from his Ale, leaving it empty. "Say there mate, I..." He swayed a bit on his stool. "I... I'm not drunk, I'm just happy!" Suddenly, his head fell to the bar, with loud snoring following suit. But about a minute later, he opened his eyes and looked up at his companion, then at the ale situated in front of him. "You gona drink that?"

For the first time, the caped man chuckled. "Nah." He pushed the ale to his friend, and looked away, closing his eyes as if in deep meditation.

"Hello, Drake the Mask."

His concentration marred, the hooded figure's eyes instantly snapped open, and he glanced behind him at an Argonian. Judging from the size and slenderness of the Argonian, it was a female. He glared contemptuously at her. "Who are you, how do you know my name, and what are you doing out of your cage, slave?"

The Argonian laughed heartily at Drake, as if she was so used to that response, she didn't care for insults. "My name is Jalanza, but you may call me Jenna. I'm one of the few free Argonian slaves in this continent, and I was lucky to be born that way. Oh yes, and you may stop wearing that silly human disguise. I know your true race; it is a race of slaves, just like mine... you're a Khajiit.

Drake smirked, turning both himself and attention to the Argonian. "You're not short of wit are you? What do you want with me."

"I require both you and your furry friend over there's service," She pointed to the drunkard Nord who had already gulped down the ale and was snoring loudly on the bar. "I know what you do... you use your powers to rob the rich."

"I won't take any more companions than I already have." replied Drake laconically.

Jenna shook her head. "Don't insult me. I'm not planning to rob a bank. I'm planning to liberate a trapped soul."

Drake was beginning to become annoyed. He interrupted. "And why should I help you?"

Jenna kept her expression calm and stately; tersely put unreadable. "Of course your incentive won't be to help out someone else. I came prepared," She pulled out a large cloth bag that jingled a bit when she let it aloft. " Two-Thousand drakes and," She then pulled out a massive book and held it up for him to see. " 'The Selvisis' Seven Shapeshifting Secrets, straight from the banned Magical arts section in the Arcane Libraries. I assume you haven't read it? After all, there's only one copy."

For the smallest moment, Drake appeared uninterested in the stately offer, but his expression quickly rematerialized into a thin side smirk... one a cocky Imperial might procure. "You sure know how to convince another of your endeavors. I'm sold, but your problem'll be my furry friend over there."

Jenna addressed Drake's friend, who appeared asleep, but she was convinced otherwise. "I can offer you an equal amount of shillings as your friend here. But the little extra gift, I'm not sure of. I don't know what your kind could profit from, but you can make a reasonable offer, and if I can follow through with it, I will. Otherwise, I'm not sure.

Upon being provoked, Drake's snoring companion instantly woke from his drunken slumber. He looked around coolly at Jenna with bloodshot eyes, and in a deep voice stated, "I can tell you're an intelligent beast. I think you're the smartest Argonian I've ever met; knowing I wasn't asleep like that. But I digress. The drakes will do fine, but that little extra gift... would be the objective of the job. You see, I've been helping Drake here steal for so long, that I'm in need of a refreshment in the form of something original. So if you have a convincing job, I'll help... plus the drakes."

"Well, I'll tell you this," began Jenna. She moved in closer to the two, lowering her inherently raspy voice to the best whisper she could. "It's a jail break, and yes, there will be many guards around this particular prisoner."

The Nord seemed interested, and Drake's face began to grow serious as he lost his smile.

"So, what prisoner is it? I can't recall an enemy of great importance enough coming into the Imperial city recently." said the Nord.

"I can't state anything further until you agree to join me."

"Fine then, I'm in." Declared Drake.

The Nord sat up, and for the first time Jenna saw his true height. His head was level with hers, and she was standing up. She felt uncomfortable around him, but her expression remained as unreadable as ever. He addressed her. "Will we be able to _shed the blood_ of those Imperial bastards?"

Jenna nodded. "You both can change in someway, whereas I cannot. So you'll be able to, while I'll be confined to sneaking around them. But I have no problem with that; I'm used to it."

"Then count me in as well. My reward, as I said, will be the experience."

"Where are we going to meet?" asked Drake.

"Day before the next full moon; two days," Jenna glanced at the Nord. "Here, if you will. But in a rented room. I've found that what's said here, stays here, and that's very cardinal to this job as a whole. I'm planning to find a few more helpers, so don't be surprised when you see them."

Drake snorted contemptuously. "I _hate_ working in groups. The other mercenaries in this area are idiots. And if you bring a single idiot here, I'm out. I'd much rather survive."

Jenna nodded again. "Don't worry. The prisoner is important to me. Important enough for me to check out who I'm dealing with before I hire them. So, I'm only hiring the best, and quite frankly, you two are among them."

Drake chuckled. "As far as I'm concerned, I am the best. So please, save your complements for others. I don't take to them kindly."

Jenna opened her mouth to protest, but then looked outside and saw that night was approaching. She looked hesitantly at Drake, and threw on a fake, although convincing smile. "Fine then, I will. Just be there, and I'll brief you and the rest. I've got to go, farewell Khajiit." She stuck out a scaly hand. Drake studied her hand for a moment, and then returned the handshake.

Without another word, she turned to leave. As she opened the door, the sun shown it's deep crimson face over the ramparts. And as she walked down the irregular stone road that was littered with grime and debris, she pulled out a small crumpled piece of paper from somewhere in her robe, reading out loud it's contents. "To those who require my service, meet me at the harbor, in it's slums, immediately after sunset. No sooner, no later. Signed Jacques. P.S. Don't run from or attack the Atronach, she is precious to me. If you hurt her, I'll be forced to do the same to you. Worse even."

The sun was just about to reach the end of it's descent when she reached the colossal twin doors that led out of the city and into the harbor. Taking one last glance in the direction of the arena, she held out her hands to the massive spires that poked their heads over the city's walls. "I'll save you yet, I promise."

With that, she signaled to the guard to open the gate, and walked calmly into the harbor.

_Short Chapters Quick Bursts, There, That's The Ticket!_

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